


Love Is a Learning Curve

by aniat



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aniat/pseuds/aniat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Adoribull pieces. As simple as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So i've had these adoribull short pieces laying around for a while and finally decided to post them. There should be about ten to fifteen in total, give or take, and i may write more, but tbh i make no promises. Though i love adoribull and they'll always be one of my absolute otps, college is driving me crazy and i'm writing other stuff right now soi may not come back to this.
> 
> However, as i said, i have some already written. They're not necessarily connected, and will be posted in no specific order every week or so. I'll add tags as i go, and warnings at the beginning of chapters if needed.
> 
> As always, i will remind you that english is not my first language and i would appreciate if you could point out any mistakes you might run into (except on theses notes, maybe, because i've got a major headache and i don't think i could write anything too coherent rn, even in portuguese). Thanks for reading, hope you like them!

Dorian is the one who teaches him to want.

It’s a slow, complicated process. It’s hard to push back his training, everything he was raised in, was raised for.

Most of all, it’s terrifying. The overwhelming weight of emotions in his chest every time he looks at Dorian is foreign, new, raw, and it brings him one step closer to becoming what he has always dreaded.

Love – he doesn’t know what else to call it, but still doesn’t quite understand what the word means – is not only selfish. It’s all-consuming, uncontrolled, _savage_. Bull feels like he could lose his mind to it and not even care.

But love, Dorian teaches him silently, wrapped up against him in sleepless nights when the fear crawls into him like snakes, is what makes you better. It destroys everything he has built, but it also builds anew.

“Your name is Iron Bull,” Lavellan tells him quietly as the Storm Coast sleeps around them, her small hand soft but firm on his arm. “And you have to figure out what that means. Your heart is precious, ma falon. Listen to it.”

He’s trying.

Like this, with Dorian sprawled lazily on the bed, his back rising and falling under Bull’s palm, it’s hard not to. It swells in his chest, riot and peace, beating savage but soothing, because Dorian is here and he _wants_ Dorian to be here.

It’s the way Dorian makes it so easy that Bull finds so hard to understand.

“Good morning,” He says now, yawning against the pillow as Bull runs his hands over smooth, tanned skin. Unguarded. He grins. “Did you want something?”

“Just you,” Bull says, because if Dorian tore down his every barrier to open himself to this, Bull can give him no less.

The Vint smiles, stretching under him like a cat. “Well, it is hard _not_ to want me.” It is. Bull isn’t sure if he’d have it any other way. “But it’s also awfully early.”

“It’s really not. You’re just lazy.”

“And you’re insatiable,” Dorian replies, but he’s still smiling.

“Not my fault you’re irresistible.”

“You do have a point,” Dorian turns his head to look over his shoulder, taking in the way Bull is straddling his hips, large hands caressing his back softly, and smiles warmly. “Very well,” He says imperiously, laying back down on the pillow and stretching out his arms. “Tempt me.”

So Bull does. His hands inch down slowly to Dorian’s hips as he leans over to kiss the back of his neck and he thinks of Cole’s words to him, proclaimed to Dorian’s blush and the endless snow of Emprise du Lion.

“He submits, but you serve.”

It occurs to him he serves because it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

But it didn’t always used to be like this, with Dorian safe and relaxed in the knowledge he’ll stop at the breath of a word, so now he relishes the slight arch of his back, the contented sigh against the pillow, drinks it in and lets Dorian’s trust anchor him to this - this moment, this _feeling_ , this terrifying, unknown thing.

It didn’t always used to be like this. It would have scared him more, once.

But Dorian is stripped bare for him, hair muzzled from sleep and kohl smudged around his eyes in a way he would never have allowed Bull to see before, and this insufferable, clever little Vint has turned the tables on him.

“Bull,” He whispers, purrs softly under his palms. “What do you want to do?”

Grounding him, pulling him back. _What do you want_. Dorian won’t let it be about what he needs anymore, or maybe Dorian needs him to want.

“Just let me worship you some more.”

“Well,” Dorian smiles, arching his back and cracking his knuckles lazily. “If you must.”


	2. Chapter 2

There are the scars Bull will brag about over tankards of ale, loud and playful, muscles flexing so they pop in contrast with his skin.

There are the ones he’ll talk about grimly and quietly, with Lavellan curled up against his side by the campfire, and she’ll lay her head on his shoulder and trace them with gentle hands.

Some stories are just for Dorian, in quiet, sleepless nights when their scars come back to haunt them.

Then there are the ones Bull won’t talk about at all, the ones that tore through more than skin and muscle, too deep to put into words.

Dorian doesn’t ask. He traces them with his fingers and lips and tongue, could map them on the Bull’s body with his eyes closed, and hopes against hope one day they will fade from the inside out.

And there’s the one in the exact shape of his hand, the one it takes Dorian weeks to be able to look at without feeling sick because the smell of burnt flesh clings to the back of his throat, the sizzle of it still hot under his palm.

It’s the only one Bull stirs him away from, not for himself, but for Dorian.

“It’s still bleeding, Dorian,” Lavellan had said, small hands shaking. “The closest camp is an hour away. He won’t make it like this.”

He had always been better with fire.

“We’ll hold him down,” Cassandra had said, firm but gentle. “Do what you must.”

“You’re thinking about it again,” Bull whispers, taking Dorian’s hand in his so it no longer lays over its own shape. “You need to stop doing that, kadan.”

Dorian thinks of the feeling of his burning hot hand over the gaping wound, the scream of pain Bull bit down on, the blood and smell that clung on to his skin for days, and lays his head down on Bull’s chest.  _ Forgive me _ .

“Thanks, Vint,” Bull had said, leaning against Cassandra with a strained smile. “I owe you one.”

Bull drops a gentle kiss to the top of his head.

“Go to sleep, kadan. We can find someone who doesn’t know the story about the hot Vint who saved my life tomorrow – the boys are threatening to mutiny if they have to hear it again.”


	3. Chapter 3

This is Dorian’s war paint.

No thick vitaar or Orlesian masks, but fine golden powder and kohl and that thick black ink for his nails Bull still can’t quite figure out.

He learns to read it.

Flashy eyeshadow means the game is on. It’s a challenge, like a snake shining bright colors in the middle of tall grass, beautiful but dripping poison from its fangs – I dare you to come any closer.

False eyelashes are rare and only for when Dorian has something to prove, like a peacock ruffling its feathers to make itself bigger.

Fancy jewelry means his walls are up. It’s what he wears to court parties or whenever particularly difficult dignitaries are visiting, always sharpened by overly-polite smiles and impeccable nails – two can play that game.

Smudged kohl means he feels safe enough to let himself slip through it, and Bull’s only ever seen it for himself or the Inquisitor.

But when Dorian wears nothing at all, that’s what scares Bull the most.

Because the thin line of kohl and light powder he wears everyday isn’t a mask, but an identity, and a bare face doesn’t mean trust. It means Dorian has given up. It means he’s too busy clawing at himself inside to care, too drunk on pain and cheap ale to find his way back to himself. In those days, he wears nothing but the look Bull’s seen so many times on so many faces in Seheron – I’m broken.

The first time it happens is right after he returns from Redcliffe’s tavern with the Inquisitor. For days he’s bare-faced and blank, clinging to books and bottles of wine like he’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe. It’s too much, a pain that tears through any walls he could put up, and so he doesn’t.

Bull steers him towards his bedroom, soft, gentle, because he knows Dorian is just barely holding on, and makes sure he clings to him instead. Dorian shakes through the whole night.

When Bull wakes up in the morning, he’s standing in front of the mirror lining his eyes with kohl.

Bull watches him do it for every day after that.


	4. Chapter 4

“I feel like you may be enjoying this a little too much, kadan.”

“I do so love the drama,” Dorian replies around a wide smile. “And the wine. Don’t forget the wine.”

Bull hums, popping another one of those tiny canapés in his mouth. He doesn’t see what the appeal is in a bunch of nobles walking around ruffling their feathers like peacocks. It’s all mostly boring and utterly predictable, and he’s only enduring it for Dorian’s sake, because he’s pretty sure the boss wouldn’t mind if he slipped away to the tavern mid-party.

At least the food is good, and Dorian is happy, so hey. It could be worse.

“Have you seen what that snobby Lord that hit on Leliana is wearing, by the way? If there’s any fairness in the world, he’ll be the one who gets assassinated tonight. That outfit is a _crime_.”

“I’m sure Leliana will see to it herself if he doesn’t back off soon.”

Bull highly doubts Josephine would allow any assassination plots going around in Skyhold, but at least it’s fun to think about. Plus, Leliana is good, and really classy about her kills. Bull most certainly doesn’t doubt her ability to make it all seem like a complete accident.

“And so she should. Though keeping an eye on assassination attempts on the Inquisitor might be a priority.”

“I hear you’re a pretty popular target yourself,” Bull comments, but doesn’t tell him he’s the one keeping an eye out for any assassination attempts on Dorian. He’d never hear the end of it.

“One cannot be as handsome as I am without inspiring some murderous intent,” Dorian smiles, nodding politely to a noble who Bull’s sure has tried to poison his wine at least twice. “I’m hardly unused to it, so you can stop your overly-protective looming.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about, kadan.”

“Some spy. I’ll have you know Tevinters eat the Orlesian Great Game for breakfast.” He scoffs, shaking his head in mock-disappointment. “Poisons and eavesdropping servants, really? This is child’s play.”

Well, Bull has to give him that. So far any attempts on Dorian’s life have been half-assed at best.

“The boss seems pretty freaked out.”

“Yes, but that’s because she has to behave like a civilized person for once. I doubt she’s impressed by any plots to end her life after having stared down a darkspawn Magister out of legend.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, who do you think _is_ going to get assassinated? I have ten royals on the Nevarran Lady.”

“You’re on.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Stay still – you’ll ruin it.”

“Sorry,” Lavellan says, wiggling her fingers as she stares at her freshly painted nails. “It’s very pretty, Dorian, but I think it looks prettier on you.”

“Everything looks prettier on me,” Dorian replies idly as he concentrates on her other hand. “It’s a gift.”

Bull hides his smile by concentrating on his work. They’re both curled up on his bed, Lavellan’s legs over Dorian’s lap, because she had decided she wanted to try on the blue weird nail paint thing Dorian keeps in Bull’s room.

It’s nice, seeing them like this. When they’ve got nothing to hide, no reputations to upkeep, and Dorian can care and Lavellan can be a kid.

“That’s because you’re _dashing_ , Dorian.”

“Stating the obvious, I see. Though thank the Maker I have you to share the burden of being the most attractive person in Skyhold with – I might go mad with all the people throwing themselves at my feet otherwise.”

“I’m not very pretty by elven standards,” The boss muses. “I haven’t really grown into my ears yet.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian scoffs. “You’re gorgeous. There, all done.”

She squeals in delight, and suddenly Bull has a hand of blue painted nails waving in front of his face.

“Look, Bull! Isn’t it _pretty_?”

“It’s beautiful, boss.” He smiles at her absolutely delighted expression.

“I’m going to go show Cole! And Sera!” She skips off, then seems to reconsider halfway to the door and turns back to launch herself at Dorian and kiss him soundly on the cheek. “Thank you!”

“Anytime, darling,” Dorian replies, and doesn’t feel the need to disguise the fondness in his eyes. She’s already darting out the door, shouting excitedly for Cole.


	6. Chapter 6

Dorian is someone used to hiding.

It doesn’t really surprise Bull that pretending is some of a second nature to him – he’s seen enough Vints to understand how they work. But Dorian is different somehow.

He can smile politely and entertain nobility with a finesse that would make even Josephine proud – granted he’s no spy, but that’s how the fucking Game works, isn’t it? Thinly veiled disdain and treachery – except he doesn’t. Well, he does, but only just enough to walk the line between charming and scandalous. Inappropriate enough to shock, but never enough that someone would actually call him out on it.

It’s the careful balance that intrigues Bull.

Dorian will give some Lady or other a clearly backhanded compliment, then bow charmingly so she has no choice but to giggle and thank him. He’ll express completely unacceptable political opinions in such roundabout and articulate ways no one can find a fault in his argument, then smile and ask for more wine. He’ll flirt with married nobles in the very face of their spouses and make it pass as polite conversation.

He bends the rules as far as they’ll go, but never openly steps out of the boundaries.

Of course down South, and probably back in Tevinter, he’s an insult in himself, and he knows it. The very impersonation of scandal. Bull thinks that’s what gets him going – rejected, outcast, and still able to outwit everyone in the room with a smile and a lazy flick of his wrist.

It’s survival, in a way. To turn and twist everything people think they know about him.

Bull’s used to it too, of course. The stares, the whispering. Only he minds his own business and Dorian absolutely refuses to be ignored or put in a box.

“This game you do,” Bull tells him one night, arm wrapped loosely around his waist as they walk through the main hall. “It’s kind of hot. Never seen a Vint gut someone with  _ words _ before.”

Dorian laughs. “That gives a new dimension to what my mother used to refer to as my ‘sharp tongue’. I get it from her, you know.” He nods at the whispering nobles by the door, something sharp twisting in his pleasant smile. Balance. “Tevinter social life is survival of the fittest. If you don’t play the game, you’re out. If you do, you end up wasting away listening to patriotic speeches by drooling old Magisters. All very tiresome. I always found being a pariah added to my charm.”

“Charmed many drooling old Magisters out of patriotic speeches, then?”

“More like sighed wearily as they went on and hoped for stronger drinks.”

“You know, stronger drinks are sort of my thing.”

Dorian smiles, the kind of smile that doesn’t hide. “Come, then. Let’s go get scandalously drunk and listen to your Chargers’ crude songs. I’d much rather sigh wearily to those.”


	7. Chapter 7

There are worse things than dying, Dorian.

Chocking on blood on a marble floor. Screaming, scared, scarred. Thick blood, turned. Watching someone you love die. Blank eyes before a knife slits his throat – he was trying to save him. It could have been you.

It should have been you.

He would have said yes.

Old hurts that tangle, stitch open skin in the pattern of his robes, do not break. Selfish in selflessness as you leave him behind, tired eyes that turn magical theory into love letters. Let him break and they’ll glue him back together in the right shape. Your shards are too sharp for his skin.

He would have said yes. You’re the one who couldn’t.

Having to walk away.

Turn your back on the mirror of your eyes, scream silently. Inside, inside. You were raised to be a mask – wear it. Smash the mirror so the blood runs free, let it boil, let it build. Burn it down. Become. Right but never right enough. Good but never good enough. You but never yours enough.

Temptation.

Power glowing at your fingertips, skin like whiskey, bottles of Dolcetto, hands that could snap your bones. Weak and selfish, clinging to anything to feel like something you’re not, always asking for more than you deserve. Wishing you could be something, mean something, trust something other than your own cowardice.

You’ll end up just like them one day.

You’re happier now.

Give in, just this once. Hope under harsh breaths, breathe it in. The amulets clash on your chest and he’ll crash into you and your cages will crack against each other. Breathe him in. The blood smells different here. Don’t be afraid – it’s yours. It’s just yours. You’re still you pressed against his chest. Give in. Let it heal.

He’ll heal too.


	8. Chapter 8

Dorian’s into possessive shit.

He likes it when Bull pulls his hair back and growls _mine_ into his skin, gets hot whenever people flirt with him and Bull wraps an arm around his waist, moans so prettily when Bull marks him.

It’s all for show, really. Bull doesn’t do jealous – it’s selfish and unfair and not really his thing – but he sure doesn’t mind the way Dorian gets.

Except sometimes he does feel selfish. Sometimes, when Dorian wraps himself around him at night, when their bodies cling together with sweat, he has to fight off this _feeling_ in his chest, this treacherous _want_.

“You’re Tal-Vashoth,” Dorian tells him once, because Dorian doesn’t do kind in the way other people do kind. “You’re allowed to _want_ things.”

But being Tal-Vashoth means – well, it means being everything he hates. Savage, uncontrolled, _selfish_. He doesn’t want to be that.

He does want Dorian. He wants Dorian a scary amount he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on.

Like with most of the major changes in his life, he can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happens. When it stops being about Dorian.

It used to be because Dorian needed to belong, to feel owned, wanted, safe. It used to be because it was really fucking hot.

But then Dorian lays his head on his chest at night and snores softly and it’s not that anymore.

It’s not jealousy, either. Not really. If Dorian wanted to go, if he wanted someone else, Bull would let him walk out without hesitation. It’s just that he suddenly realizes how much the thought terrifies him.

It shouldn’t. Dorian doesn’t _belong_ to him. He should be free to walk away whenever this stops being fun, and he is.

Except Bull really wants him to stay.

“Mine,” He says, because Dorian needs it, and ignores the sharp twist in his chest. “You’re mine.”

And maps Dorian’s skin in his mind just in case.


	9. Chapter 9

“ Rilienus. Skin tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles. He would have said yes.”

Dorian doesn’t talk about it, but the way his walls immediately come up says enough, just like the way the Boss cuts in without even looking at him says this is a story she’s heard before, if only briefly.

This is someone Dorian loved.

Not fucked-in-a-dark-hallway loved, not I-like-your-face-and-we’re-drunk love, but the kind of love bas write poems and songs and novels about. The kind of love that always ends badly in Varric’s books.

The Qunari don’t feel and deal with love the same way humans do, but Bull has made it his job as a spy to understand it. It is a weakness, after all, and therefore a weapon.

Except he doesn’t know what to make of this. It hurts, of course, because Cole managed to pull it out from who knows where, but Dorian’s reaction isn’t sharp or clearly emotional like it is when the kid brings up his father.

Bull has never heard the name before, which isn’t surprising in itself, but the fact that he didn’t have the slightest suspicion Dorian apparently left someone behind in Tevinter is. Dorian may be good at hiding, but Bull is damn good at what he does.

So he goes through every possible sign in the last few months in his head: analyzes the way Dorian talked about relationships in Tevinter, what he whispered and moaned in bed, whether or not his smile turned bitter whenever old lovers came up. What he determinedly did not analyze was the fact that he wouldn’t be obsessing over it if it had been anyone but Dorian.

He knows that Cassandra lost someone, that it makes her defensive, drowning out a longing in romance novels. He knows that Varric clings to a love long lost to life and tradition. He doesn’t dwell on it.

He does dwell on Dorian.

Bull understands love. The kind of love that makes Dorian smile at Lavellan, that makes her go from soft to sharp in a heartbeat whenever someone so much as looks at him wrong, that makes Bull step in front of blades not meant for him – that he knows. 

But the kind of all-consuming, gut-wrenching love humans write and talk about, that he does not know, and Dorian doesn’t do anything by halves. This is someone he loved, and therefore he loved him with everything he had. Bull knows this kind of devotion, but not to another person, to  _ one _ person.

He can’t give Dorian that.

Rilienus, whoever he is, would have, or so Cole says, if that’s even what he means. The kid is not the clearest.

But Dorian left.

And it must still haunt him, still hurt, but that’s a part of him Bull is not allowed to see yet, if ever.

But Dorian still curls up against his side at camp, shakes inside a tent that does little to keep off the cold, and Bull wishes he could give him everything.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to post this i've been insanely busy! Have this short and sweet little chapter as an apology

They lay panting, Dorian’s sweaty skin shining in the dim lighting. His lips curl into a lazy, satisfied smile as he stretches luxuriously on the bed.

“That was,” Bull breathes out, smiling down at him. “That was good, kadan.”

“ _Good_ ,” Dorian scoffs, though he looks no less pleased. “I know for a fact I am nothing short of _amazing_.”

Bull hums in agreement. “Gorgeous, too.”

He is. It’s a bit overwhelming, at times, the way it leaves Bull feeling all funny and warm.

“And brilliant, and clever, and charming. I could spend all night listing my numerous qualities.”

“Well,” Bull wraps an arm around him. Dorian is getting cold already, judging by the way he presses his toes against Bull’s legs. Delicate little flower. “Lucky me, then.”

“Indeed. You should be thanking me profusely. Worshiping the ground I walk on.”

“I’m a better man for having met you, kadan. I will thank you for that.”

He doesn’t think much of it, but Dorian looks up at him with the oddest expression on his face.

“Alright. I’ll have to speak to Josephine. How do you feel about summer?”

“What?”

“Well, I refuse to be cold on my wedding day. It has to be summer.”

Dorian does get cold a lot –

Wait.

“ _What?_ "

Dorian blinks at him, looking a little hurt.

“I assumed we were getting married.”

Well, that’s –

“I, um,” Bull stutters, clearing his throat. “I mean – uh.”

Then Dorian bursts out laughing.

The little shit.

“Oh, Maker, _the look on your face_.”

“You are _evil_ ,” Bull says, and kisses him until he stops giggling.


	11. Chapter 11

“Dorian cares. He just doesn’t know how to.”

She would make a damn good spy with some training, the way she reads people. Give her some time and she’ll give you a weakness. Except she doesn’t use weakness to hurt – she heals.

“They’re not weaknesses, Iron Bull. Dorian is brave because he cares. Cullen is strong because he hurts. You kill because you want to protect. People are more than weapons.”

Bull hopes she never becomes a spy. It would ruin her.

He knows Dorian cares so much he doesn’t know what to do with it. So when Bull falls ill, stuck in bed and shaking with fever from a poison that should probably have killed him, he knows to take Dorian's words for what they are.

“If you die from this, after all we’ve been through, I’ll kill you.”

I’m terrified.

“I know you’re delirious, but if you ever call me ‘Tama’ again I will set your horned ass on fire.”

I know I’m important to you.

“Your jokes are so terrible I feel my sanity slowly slipping away.”

I know you’re trying to make me smile and I appreciate it.

“Try not to die on me. I would notice if you were gone, you know.”

Please don’t leave me alone.

“Qunari don’t have families.”

Sometimes I worry I won’t be enough.

“So, you’re Tal-Vashoth now. Yay.”

I know you think you left everything behind but I’m still here.

“It’s unreasonably cold outside.”

I feel safe here.

And when Dorian stands on the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and says nothing, just stares at Bull before following the boss up the hill, he knows too.

I love you.


	12. Chapter 12

Bull’s seen Dorian do it before – the purple, sharp magic that makes people scream and creatures buck in terror. He hadn’t seen much of it in the past, even among the Vints, and it’s still a little creepy to watch, if useful. Would be damn good for interrogations.

Turns out Dorian’s not the only one who can do it, because he’s yelling out when Bull turns around and a Venatori mage gets him straight in the chest.

It just feels cold, at first. Like you sometimes feel the coolness of a blade before the actual sting. Then he smells salt and burning flesh and –

There’s sand beneath his feet and blood on his hands. Panic spreads through his body until he can’t stop himself from shaking, savage, overwhelming. There’s blood on his hands and then – Dorian. Dorian broken and bloodied on the sand, eyes wide open and staring right at him, and Bull sinks to his knees because no, _no_ , he didn’t do this, _he couldn’t_ –

Lavellan is clutching her stomach, blood gushing through her fingers, tears running down her face as she spits words out at him – _traitor, liar, savage, you’ve gone mad._

No, no. He didn’t do it, he couldn’t, he would never, but she’s looking at him with so much hatred and Dorian is _dead_ and he can see the sea tinted red with blood.

Hissrad. Liar.

_You’ve gone mad_ , she says. _Look what you’ve done, look what you’ve become._

Tal-Vashoth. Savage.

_Kill me_ , he says. _Please, kill me_.

_You’re going to live – you’re going to live to remember what you did. We trusted you. He trusted you._

No. _No_.

_Look at me_ , Dorian says. _Look me in the eyes._

He can’t, he can’t –

_Bull, look at me._

He opens his eye. There is blood, but no sand, no sea. Dorian is kneeling in front of him, Lavellan behind him. Alive.

They’re alive.

“It’s okay,” She says, gentle again, loving in a way he does not deserve. “It’s okay, it’s over now.”

It’s not over. It lingers in the way Bull moves, the way he talks, crawls up his spine on sleepless nights. He can’t shake off the fear.

“I know,” Dorian whispers one night, hand over Bull’s chest. “It’s worse the first time. Do not let it control you.”

He makes the boss do another exercise with him – hit him with a stick, as she calls it. She doesn’t like it, but he can’t ask anyone else.

“Promise me,” He asks once she’s panting and he can taste blood in his mouth. “You’ll kill me if I ever become one of them.”

She looks up at him, lays a tiny hand on his wrist.

“Boss.”

“I’m not afraid of you, ma falon. You shouldn’t be either.”

He shakes his head, grips her hand with a little more force than he would usually allow himself to.

“Promise me.”

It’s unfair of him to ask her. He knows that. He also knows she’s the one who will understand the most.

“I won’t let you hurt him. I can promise you that.”

Bull doesn’t ask how she knows. Just watches her leave and thinks that fear doesn’t even begin to describe a world without Dorian.


	13. Chapter 13

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

“That’s a lie. I just took a nap.”

“Collapsing on top of your books doesn’t really count, kadan.”

Dorian pointedly ignores him as he reaches for his mug. Bull has no idea how he managed to get Tevinter coffee out here, but he’s seriously considering messing with the supply because Dorian hasn’t drunk anything else for the past two days.

“Haven’t been eating, either. The only thing you took from the kitchens today was a loaf of bread.”

“Stop stalking me,” Dorian snaps, and it speaks volumes to how tired he is that it carries no more of a faint of his usual bite. “Go lift something heavy or bash your Chargers with sticks.”

“It’s not healthy, kadan.”

In fact, he looks anything but healthy. His usually immaculate hair is sticking out in all directions, and the smudged kohl does nothing to hide the bags under his eyes.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. But you won’t get anything done if your brain turns to mush.”

Dorian sighs in frustration. “If only there was anything useful in this blighted library, I could get this done in a matter of hours. But no – it’s all southern _nonsense_ . Do you know how infuriating that is? All I want is a single reliable source on Tevinter history, but – what the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Language,” Bull smirks at the quite colorful, multi-language string of curses that follows. “And I’m carrying you to bed.”

“This is not the time for your little sex games!”

“No games. You’re going to sleep and I’m going to get you some food from the tavern.”

“I told you I _did_ sleep! And I have research to finish!”

“You can finish it in the morning.”

“Put me down right now or I swear on Andraste’s tits I’ll set you on fire!”

Bull doubts he’d be able to properly cast anything when he can barely stand, but keeps quiet as Dorian kicks up a fuss on the way to his bedroom. He doesn’t try to stand up when Bull lays him down on the bed, though, which really says something.

“Are you _tucking me in_?”

“Yes,” Bull replies, adjusting the covers around him. “Now sleep. Food later.”

“You are insufferable. I don’t know why I put up with you at all.”

He’s asleep in a matter of minutes.


	14. Chapter 14

Bull spins her around and she laughs. Dorian concentrates on not smiling.

“It’s warm.” Cole whispers next to him, perched on a table. It must say something that Dorian doesn’t even jump anymore. “Warm and safe. Is this what home is supposed to feel like? Is this what love feels like when it doesn’t hurt? When it’s not fear? You don’t need to be afraid. They make you happy. It’s good.”

Dorian likes when they’re together – even if they’re both terrible dancers and surrounded by snakes at an Orlesian ball. It’s not often they get to just be happy.

“Is this what love really feels like?”

Even Josephine can’t be mad at the scandal they are most certainly causing, just smiles from the side. Let them. Let them be happy. We’ll deal with it later.

Bull lifts her up and she laughs again, holding on to his shoulders. Cullen is smiling too.

“He got the first dance. You’re next, then Josephine, then she’ll try Leliana too. She wants to dance with me, but then they’d have to see me.”

“Let them see you,” Dorian says, doesn’t take his eyes off the dancefloor. “It will make her happy.”

“You’re happy because you love them. No fear, no pain, just tonight, just for a little while. Remember her laugh and the way he smiles at her.” He pauses, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself, then whispers. “I’m happy too.”

“Well then,” Dorian smiles as she rushes towards him. “Let’s dance.”

She drags him off to the dancefloor and Bull smiles at him.

“Save me one too, kadan.”

“Always,” Cole says for him. “He always will.”


	15. Chapter 15

He thinks of Tevinter, sometimes.

It doesn’t happen as often as he would expect, but sometimes –

Sometimes he’s working late and remembers how Felix used to sneak him treats from the kitchen, and sometimes teaching Lavellan Tevene reminds him of his nanny or the smell of jasmine brings back the feeling of his mother’s embrace.

(It must say something about him that he still wears it, the jasmine perfume she used to be so fond of. He tries not to wonder whether it reminds her of him too, and whether or not it hurts when it does.)

Maeve still writes to him, clandestine little messages every now and then, and homesickness fights the sickness in his stomach because he  _ remembers _ .

He remembers the Circle, and the fancy parties, and running around the garden. He remembers hands and whispers in dark corners, tanned skin and half-smiles, and being carried to bed when he fell asleep in the library until no one could quite manage to carry him anymore. He remembers his father yelling, his mother’s blank expression, and sketched ritual markings hidden in their bedroom.

It still hurts, sometimes, and he knows Cole slips quietly next to Bull to whisper half-formed sentences when it gets too much.

Bull, who does carry him to bed after blowing out the candles in the library and leaves the half-empty bottles of wine behind. Bull, who wraps his arms around him and makes him feel safe.

Bull, who could hurt him too.

Dorian is many things, but he has never been a coward. He won’t run from this.

If it hurts, he will remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little short one this week, and sadly only two more to go. I am taking prompts for both Dragon Age and Mass Effect though, so just message me or leave a comment if you have any requests :)


	16. Chapter 16

“Andraste’s holy tits, what the _fuck_!”

Bull looks up from his work, raising an eyebrow at the door as Sera stomps up the stairs in a storm of screams and curses. He glances at Dorian, who is sprawled luxuriously on the bed, looking far too smug, and groans.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Prissy little mage shit, piss-bag, arse-biscuit!” Sera kicks the door open, face red, hair even messier than usual, and glares. “You fucking twat!”

“Hello, Sera.”

“I’ll show you hello up your arse, you and your fucking blood magic shit!”

Dorian smirks. “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“Fucking shite basket!” Sera grabs the first thing within reach – Bull’s harness, as it turns out – and throws it. Dorian throws up a light barrier with a flick of his wrist just in time and laughs. “A fucking dead bird, fucking _flying_ – blood mage fucker!”

“I don’t need blood magic for that. It is a rather simple spell, actually-”

“Stick your spell up your arse!” She yells, and Bull snickers quietly. “I told you if you magic me I’ll shoot you, you rich shite! Fucking messing around with normal people’s heads, fucking arse-brat you are!”

“I didn’t _magic_ you. The bird just happened to fly into your room.”

“Fucking stop sacrificing kittens for this shit, then! Go fuck your dead people and leave me alone! Bloody fucking mage shites!”

And with that she storms out again, slamming the door behind her. Bull raises an eyebrow at Dorian, who is chuckling quietly, barrier vanishing.

“You really enjoy freaking her out, don’t you?”

“She’s just so _eloquent_.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this today as i won't have time tomorrow. It's technically the last one, but i have a little bonus i wasn't originally going to post ;) Thank you all so much for reading and all your lovely comments - they honestly make my day. As i said before, i am taking prompts for Dragon Age fics (especially adoribull and fenders because i love them so much help) so let me know if you have something in mind :)

“Well, this is a bit awkward.”

“This your first time sleeping with a woman, kadan?”

Dorian rolls his eyes, sighing quietly as to not disturb the little elf mage lying on his chest.

“She’s climbed into my bed plenty of times before. _This_ is new.”

This being that they are in Bull’s room, lying on the large bed with Lavellan squeezed between them, sound asleep.

“I feel like we have adopted a weirdly large elven child who is afraid to sleep alone.”

 _Large_ isn’t quite how Bull would describe the boss, but he gets the point. He is a little relieved she’s finally getting some sleep, though. There were too many long, lonely nights where she would just sit on the battlements wide-awake, Cole occasionally popping by with food and water and blankets.

(“Everything feels cold. Empty, lonely, clawing for company but distancing herself. They haunt her, whispers and songs and blood that clings to her and sticks under her skin. Be strong, be strong. Do your duty. Protect them. She just wants to _help_. It wasn’t her fault.”)

Bull waits for her to come to him – she comes to _them_. It makes sense. Dorian is her best friend, her favorite, and Bull makes her feel safe.

“This something you think about? Kids?”

He knows it’s important to bas, or most of them, anyway.

Dorian looks away.

“Not usually. In Tevinter, whether or not you _want_ children isn’t important, and my father figures aren’t exactly encouraging.”

“You’re a pretty shitty Vint, though.”

Family. What a strange concept.

“And you’re a pretty shitty Qunari. I guess,” Dorian glances at him, kohl smudged around his eyes, hand tangled in golden hair. “I guess that works.”

It does. Maybe.

“You telling me you want a little elf, kadan?”

Dorian scoffs, smiles fondly down at her. “I think we’ve got our hands full with this one.”

Tal-Vashoth have families.

Being Tal-Vashoth isn’t so bad if he can have Dorian.


	18. Bonus

Dorian is a force of nature on the battlefield.

He’s overly flashy, twirling his staff in unnecessarily elegant shapes, quite literally throwing fire as his entire body moves with it, but terrifyingly, deadly efficient. There’s a sneer to his expression, a threatening, sarcastic smirk that pulls at his mouth – _I’m going to burn your fucking face off_.

He dodges a spell from a Venatori mage and cackles as he hits them dead in the chest and they sink to their knees, screaming in terror – _I’m more powerful than you_.

Bull slips in to cut off the mage’s head, then quickly gets out of his line of fire, because Dorian gets unbelievably annoyed when he has to aim past “that small fort he calls a body”. And when Dorian is annoyed he tends to make things go boom. Bull does value his life, despite evidence to the contrary.

But no matter how good he is, Dorian isn’t invincible. Bull is brutally reminded of that fact when they get flanked by reinforcements.

“Archers behind us!” Varric calls, an edge of desperation to his tone. “Sparkler’s down!”

Bull strikes the last Venatori soldier in his way and turns around all in the same motion.

Dorian is laying on the ground, an arrow stuck to his back. Lavellan stands above him, snarling as she throws spell after spell at the remaining archers, her spirit blade slicing through anyone who gets too close. Won’t be long before she runs out of mana at this pace.

Bull rushes to her side just in time, blood pumping and roaring on his ears, and slams into an assassin trying to close in on her.

“Bull!” She calls, and another assassin’s nose cracks under her staff. Out of mana. Shit. “Stay with Dorian! We’ve got this!”

Dorian is struggling for air but conscious, the arrow deep in his shoulder blade. Bull pushes down the panic rising in his chest and kneels next to him, keeping an eye on the battle in case anyone gets too close.

“Keep your eyes open, Vint. Stay with me.”

Lavellan downs a lyrium potion and slams her staff on the ground, frying two Venatori at once with such fury Bull barely recognizes her. Varric puts an arrow right between the eyes of the next one and it’s all over.

Bull drops his axe and reaches for Dorian, turning him so he can try and ease his breathing and see if the arrow went all the way through. He does so as gently as he can, but Dorian still chokes out a pained groan and spits blood at his feet.

“It didn’t go through,” Bull informs the others as Lavellan kneels next to him on the ground, reaching for Dorian with shaky hands.

“We need to pull it out. Get him back on his stomach. Varric, we need fresh water!”

“Please make it quick,” Dorian mumbles, groaning as Bull places him back down.

“I will. Save your strength,” Bull replies, and makes a conscious effort to stop his hands from shaking as Lavellan puts pressure on the wound and nods to him. He has no way of telling just how far in the arrow is, just pulls at it as hard as he can.

Something twists sharply in his chest at Dorian’s muffled screams of pain, and he battles against his panic as blood gushes out of the now open wound even as Lavellan presses down on it.

Dorian needs him, so he swallows it down.

“Kadan,” He calls, because Dorian looks a second away from passing out from blood loss and pain, cold sweat shining on his forehead as he bites down on another scream. “Dorian, stay with me.” He doesn’t watch as Lavellan cleans the wound, just takes the potion Varric offers him and brings it to Dorian’s lips. “It will take the edge off. Come on.”

Dorian swallows it down and closes his eyes. Bull’s heart hammers wildly against his chest.

“Kadan, don’t close your eyes. You need to stay with me now, then I’ll carry you to camp and let you sleep as long as you want.” He glances to where Lavellan is working in time to see her rub some sort of herb over the wound. It’s an elf thing, she would say. Bull just hopes it works. “Just a little bit longer, Dorian.”

Dorian gives him a soft grunt of acknowledgement, then groans as Lavellan wraps a bandage tightly around the wound.

“I’ll ride ahead and warn the healers,” She says, standing. “Varric can take Dorian’s horse. Take him and hurry.”

Bull gets him on the horse and tries his best to ignore Dorian’s groans every time the step jostles him.

He talks to Dorian the whole way there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we're done. I don't really like this one, but after how lovely you all have been i felt like i just couldn't leave one out. Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate all of your wonderful comments <3
> 
> I might add some more short pieces to this as i write them, so let me know if there's something you want to see :)


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